


Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, Moving In Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: “You do understand that would entail having to suffer my presence on a daily basis, whether you wanted to or not.”A smile tugged at Valjean’s lips, all the more despicably fond for the blush still on his cheeks. He raised Javert’s hand to his lips to press a kiss to the backs of his knuckles. “I’m certain I could bear it.”[Valjean makes a proposition, and Javert accepts.]
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 6
Kudos: 101





	Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a loose sequel to my other modern au fic ["le soleil toute l'année"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346994) but should definitely stand on its own.

They hadn’t talked about it—about anything, really. As things had always done between them, it had all simply fallen into place. They’d been sitting down to their usual breakfast at the cafe where they’ve been having coffee and croissants every Wednesday for months, only it wasn’t their usual breakfast anymore; it was their second breakfast after the trip and everything had changed, was continuing to change as inexorably as continents colliding into mountain ranges. 

They’d sat at their usual table eating their usual food, Javert with his small bitter coffee and Valjean with his tea, and most everything had borne a striking resemblance to any breakfast they’d have eaten together weeks ago, except that their fingers were intertwined on the table top. Their waiter managed to be insufferably happy for them without uttering an additional word, leaving Javert to wonder if there was anyone in France who hadn’t entertained secret hopes for the two strange old men to stop dancing around the issue. 

Sometimes Javert would almost give a start, seeing Valjean’s hand in his own so flagrantly for everyone to see—surely there had been a mistake? Surely whatever scant, miserly good Javert had managed to dole out over the course of his life could not have justified this, to be sitting in a cafe in the sun holding Jean Valjean’s hand. He knew he didn’t deserve it; his heart twitched and fluttered like a broken-winged bird each and every time, yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull his hand away, nor stop smiling.

It had been that day, in the midst of one of Javert’s many tirades against the other residents of his tiny flat, the feet stomping at six in the morning and the crying babies and the bedpost banging at all hours of the night (and _day_ , the libertines) on the opposite side of the wall from Javert’s work desk, a wall which may as well have been a paper screen for all the good it did. Some time ago Valjean had sympathetically presented him with a pair of noise cancelling headphones. That would have helped, if Javert couldn’t feel the vibrations through the damn floodboards. 

“ _And_ my rent is going up next month,” Javert groused, raising his cup to his lips with a frown. “I’m not sure why I bother extending the lease. I’ll have to find a new apartment soon enough either way.” His other hand remained Valjean’s captive, and he was rubbing the lines on Javert’s palm gently. Or had been, until the end; now his hand had stilled, and he looked at Javert with an edge of nervousness. 

“Would you, ah.” Valjean cleared his throat. A spot of color appeared on both cheeks. “That is to say, I’ve been meaning to ask, and I suppose—would you be interested in moving in with me?” 

Javert blinked. “Live with you?”

“Well, yes. If you’d like to.”

“It’s not my preferences I’m concerned about at the moment,” Javert said, raising an eyebrow. “You do understand that would entail having to suffer my presence on a daily basis, whether you wanted to or not.”

A smile tugged at Valjean’s lips, all the more despicably fond for the blush still on his cheeks. He raised Javert’s hand to his lips to press a kiss to the backs of his knuckles. “I’m certain I could bear it.” 

Javert made a dubious noise—he hadn’t really been joking. He was still growing accustomed to the idea that Valjean enjoyed spending time with him at all, and eons away from beginning to comprehend the idea that Valjean might _want_ him—repeated evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. That Valjean would want to spend every day, every night, in Javert’s presence in some capacity—well, of course Javert wanted that too. But he was a selfish man now, and perhaps always had been without realizing it. His desires ought not be the deciding factor, or even a factor at all. 

But, well, Valjean had asked. And Javert, weak as he was, fumblingly conceded.

*

So here they are now, Javert’s scant possessions filed away with no difficulty at all into the spaces of Valjean’s home. The townhouse is large and airy, the kitchen and living room on the first floor and the office and bedroom above—just the one, of course. Javert’s breath catches in his throat when he first steps inside to lay down his bags. He’s been in here before, of course, slept in Valjean’s bed and done more than just sleep. Now it is no longer Valjean’s bed; it is theirs. Javert’s hands feel strangely weak as he neatly re-folds his shirts and pants into a spare drawer of Valjean’s dresser, and then hurries back downstairs to help Valjean with dinner. 

“Find everything alright?” Valjean calls over his shoulder above the hiss of stir-frying vegetables. 

“It’s a bedroom, not a labyrinth,” Javert says, earning himself a flick of the towel tucked into Valjean’s apron.

“Take over here,” Valjean says sternly. “I’m going to go get us some wine.”

“This will be a blackened ruin by the time you get back.” 

“Then I’ll get us two bottles of wine.”

Javert tucks his head and rides out the smile which seesaws across both ends of his lips as he rolls the sleeves of his white button-down up over his elbows. The peppers and carrots and broccoli are almost garish against the black pan. He prods at them dubiously. His heart beats too fast in his chest, but that’s tolerable. He’s helped Valjean cook before, sat at Valjean’s table for dinner before, even gone upstairs hand-in-hand afterwards before, though that had been a far more recent development. Nothing has changed, he tells himself. Except that it has.

A short while later he hears Valjean come into the kitchen behind him, and a glass of wine enters his peripheral vision. Valjean sets it on the counter by the stove where Javert can reach it easily but doesn’t step away. Instead, a hand comes to rest lightly on Javert’s hip; Valjean is a warm presence close behind him, fingers running lightly over the shoulder of his button-down and then settling against the bare skin at his nape. Moments later he feels the slight tug of Valjean’s fingers freeing his hair from its tie and then sliding through his hair. It is intolerably pleasant. Javert’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, the heat rising from the stove sinking beneath his skin.

“That’s not sanitary,” he manages after a moment. 

Valjean makes a dismissive sound and brushes Javert’s hair to the side. His lips press warm and gentle just beneath Javert’s ear, and he shivers. 

"We'll see how you feel about it when you're pulling my hair out of your teeth."

Valjean scoffs into the crook of his neck, a hot puff of air. “Perhaps it would be worth it.”

Javert turns off the heat and moves the pan off the burner before turning around. Valjean barely shifts back to accommodate him, which is good; it makes it far easier to cup the man’s cheek, rough with the day’s stubble beneath his palm, and lean in to kiss him almost musingly. As if asking a question which Valjean answers in kind, slow and unhurried, Javert’s other hand rising to take Valjean’s face between them both as Valjean’s tongue slides into his mouth. It’s not long before Javert is dragging in heavy breaths through his nose, for Valjean may not have much experience with kissing but he has long appeared to be a natural at it, so easily inclined to patience, so agonizingly gentle. 

Javert only pulls back when he nearly catches himself leaning backwards against the still-hot stove. Valjean opens his eyes, looking glazed and happy and far more appetizing than dinner. 

“Are we going to start pawing at each other before dinner like a couple of sex-starved teenagers?” Javert manages to ask, phrasing it as a wry joke when it might be closer to a request. 

Something flickers in Valjean’s eyes. A flash of temptation, perhaps. But a smile that somehow straddles the line between sheepish and coy settles on Valjean’s lips instead. “I, ah, would be tempted. Except I had thought perhaps we would take our time tonight.”

At once the mere act of swallowing seems a gargantuan task. “I see.”

Valjean ducks his head, squeezes Javert’s hand one last time, and then clears his throat. “Shall we eat?”

Dinner is a quiet affair, the chicken only slightly overcooked and the vegetables not noticeably ruined by Javert’s attentions. They sit catty-corner to each other, knees pressed amicably together beneath the table: the only contact between them, and all the more maddening for it. The theories chasing themselves round Javert’s head as to what Valjean might have planned once they go upstairs are perhaps even more so. He drinks his wine far too quickly, and Valjean is too quick to top him up; there’s heat in both their faces by the time Valjean pushes his plate away, and then just stares at him, flushed and smiling, his lips just slightly swollen from the lingering trace of the kiss. 

This is home, Javert realizes, as he sets his utensils down with a gentle clink. This is home now, and he doesn't deserve it; _wouldn’t_ deserve it even without the laundry list of sins committed against Valjean personally, because Valjean is the kind of person who goes running at six in the morning, who cooks for his daughter and her husband and kid, who gives to charity and volunteers at church and soup kitchens, and Javert is the kind of person with a bad back from desk work who eats takeout standing in front of the microwave and doesn’t have any hobbies. There’s not about him that could warrant interest, and yet Valjean is watching him with fondness creased in his eyes, watching to see what Javert will do next. 

Javert clears his throat, which is almost too tight for speech. “Well. Shall we?”

On a normal night they would remain at this table for an hour or more, talking and sipping wine. Tonight Valjean stands, and holds out his hand without a word. Javert takes it, and allows himself to be led up the stairs to their room. 

*

Javert sits on the edge of Vajean’s bed as Valjean closes the door. For a moment they just stare at each other. Not three days ago they had fallen into this very bed together and stroked each other off as if it were nothing; now Javert feels like nothing will be easy or insignificant for him ever again. 

Valjean leans back against the door behind him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Javert smooths his palms over his knees, a precaution against nervous sweat. Valjean’s mouth quirks lopsidedly, but he doesn’t leave the door.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m not. Are you?”

“A little.” Valjean crosses the room and carefully lowers himself to his knees in front of Javert. His hands cup Javert’s on his knees, following the grooves between tendons. “It feels different tonight.”

Javert lets out a shaky exhalation. As if by naming the demon they’ve invited it into the room, and he can hear its prowling footsteps. “It should feel different. It _is_ different.”

“Mmm.” Valjean’s hands travel up to Javert’s wrists, settling on them in a loose grip. There’s nothing particularly provocative about the position, except for the fact that Valjean is on his knees in front of him and Javert is sitting in Valjean’s, no, _their_ bed — and suddenly Javert is also thinking about what it would be like for those hands to tighten. He has never been an adept liar and this close there’s no hiding his reaction. 

“I, ah. Thought that tonight, if you wanted to, we could… I have condoms,” Valjean said, stumbling through it. “And, all the things we would need. If that is something you might like to do.” 

The sound of Javert unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth is surely deafening. It takes him a moment to marshal it into a shape which might form words. “I’d like that.”

Valjean looks actually relieved—relieved! As if there were a single instance in all the multiverse in which Javert would have told him, _no, actually Jean I’d rather not._ Javert clears his throat, desperately trying to focus on the practicalities. “How do you want to, um…”

The color in Valjean’s face deepens. “I’ve thought about it both ways.”

Valjean may as well have socked him in the stomach, for all the effect those words have; Javert’s breath leaves him and keeping his legs steady is a circus balancing act where all the plates are greased. “Christ. Yes. So have I.” 

Valjean blinks. “Oh. Well. Do you want to… tell me what you thought about?”

There is perhaps no request Valjean could have made of him which would have been more difficult to fulfill. And yet Javert closes his eyes, reaching back past the memories of real sensation he has been stockpiling in the previous weeks, back before the vacation and the kiss on the beach beneath the stars and the first time he felt Valjean’s hand on him—back to the long nights alone spent biting the heel of his hand to stifle his noises, torturing himself with fantasies he’d known for a certainty would never become true.

“I thought about that time on your couch that we were both fairly drunk,” Javert begins. His voice sounds odd, not his own. He would never say these words, not aloud, not to Valjean. “And I, uh, thought about what might have happened if I had climbed into your lap, and, Christ, got you out of your jeans and, God, Jean, please don’t make me say this—”

Valjean’s breath is coming hard now, the hands on Javert’s forearms tight. “What else,” he says, and Javert never could resist that edge of command in his voice. He drags in a steadying breath, but there’s nothing to steady him now. Just him and Valjean, spinning out into space. 

“I thought about texting you, the nights when I was up late. I wasn’t even drunk but I still thought about it.” Valjean’s hands have slid from Javert’s arms to his hips. The thumbs dig in deep. “Thought about asking you to come over, and you knowing exactly what I meant. And I thought about you pushing me onto the bed and fucking me, or sometimes the other way around. It didn’t matter. It was always good.” The words spill out of him in a hurried tangle, barely coherent, and yet Javert can’t make himself stop or slow down. Valjean is pressing his face against Javert’s neck now, sucking bruises in places where they’ll be difficult to hide. It’s not like Javert is any good with words, he can’t paint a pretty picture of the images even now moving behind his eyes; but maybe it’s enough, for Valjean to wring these desperate staccato sentiments out of him, one by one.

It must be enough, because a minute later Valjean pulls back. “Will you get up on the bed?” he says, and Javert doesn’t need to be told twice. Up, towards the headboard, clothes off, hands shaking a little but Valjean isn’t watching. Valjean is getting things out of the drawer, the condoms still in the box and the bottle of lube still price-stickered, a washcloth. Then Valjean glances at Javert, naked in bed, sucks in a sharp breath and quickly strips himself. 

In a moment he is back in bed, straddling Javert’s lap, a box of condoms in one hand and the bottle of lube in the other, looking between the two of them as if debating what to do next—and then Javert is laughing, helplessly, almost hysterically, because the image has pushed him so far past what he is able to handle that something, anything, has to give. Valjean stares down at him in bafflement for a moment before bursting out laughing himself, until they’re both leaning into each other with helpless giggles, hands on the warm skin of backs and shoulders, and they’re still laughing when Valjean’s hand wraps itself around Javert’s cock and his laugh turns into a shaky gasp. 

“I think I’d like it just as well either way,” Valjean says. “But would you—do that to me, for me, this time?” 

“Yes.” Javert closes his eyes, losing himself in the feeling of Valjean’s hand for just a moment. “God yes.”

“Good.” Valjean sets the condoms down on the bed beside them and starts trying to squeeze the lubricant out of its tube. Nothing is happening. Valjean makes a face, shaking it vigorously and very nearly smacking Javert in the nose.

“Jean, there’s a—there’s a seal—”

“Oh, right—”

And then they’re laughing again, little more than stifled wheezes at this point, and at last Valjean fumbles the cap open and peels off the seal and manages to get some lube onto his hands, and then Javert leans back against the headboard to watch as Valjean reaches back to get a finger into himself, his brow tight with concentration. 

For a while Javert is content just to watch. Valjean’s hand grips his shoulder, steadying himself; his breathing is carefully moderated. Javert can’t actually see what he’s doing, but he can imagine it well enough. The slide of his fingers, in and out, getting used to the sensation. “Have you done this to yourself before?”

“Um. Not until recently.” Valjean smiles. Javert can’t breathe. “I wanted to know what it would feel like. If we decided to.”

“Jean.” Javert squeezes his thighs, trying not to look at the hardening length between them. “Will you let me?” 

After a moment Valjean nods, and lowers his hand. The lube is cold as Javert squeezes a bit into his hand, slicks his fingers while Valjean watches. The mechanics of sex had never interested him before, even as a theory; it had all seemed so undignified, so vulgar. Sex had always seemed like a lot of work and embarrassment for a relatively minor payoff. Now that he’s seen the look in Valjean’s eyes while he gets his fingers ready to push inside of him, Javert is beginning to change his opinion. 

He reaches up, ignoring Valjean’s cock to slide a finger up and down the crease of his ass. Feeling the slickness Valjean has already left there; circles it, slowly, until Valjean’s legs are trembling on either side of his hips. Only then does Javert press deeper; feel the warmth and tightness stretching around him, hear Valjean’s sharp intake of breath. He looks up to see Valjean’s eyes are closed, his face tilted back in an attitude of near-rapture. It’s a sight Javert intends to take to his grave, because he certainly will never forget it. 

It isn’t too long before Valjean asks him for more, and then more again; Javert makes him wait each time before obliging, working him open slowly and methodically, until both of Valjean’s hands are on his shoulders and he is rocking against his fingers with the kind of abandon that could make Javert come untouched if he let this go on too long. 

“I’m not going to last very long,” Javert warns him. “Once we get started.” 

“Thank God. Me neither.” The flush has traveled down Valjean’s chest; his mouth hangs open with every breath. “I’m ready now.”

Javert leans up to kiss the corner of his mouth, clumsy. “Not yet.”

“Javert, _please_.”

“ _Not yet_. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Valjean makes a noise that steals the breath from Javert’s lungs, and presses even harder against the fingers inside of him. Still Javert keeps working him, until Valjean is no longer tense and rigid at all; he leans forward to press his face to Javert’s shoulder and only trembles, breaths ragged and deep, not relaxed but certainly pliant. And only then does Javert kiss his neck, stroking his back with his other hand, and murmur: “Alright.” 

Somehow Valjean manages to fumble for the box of condoms while Javert continues his ministrations. With shaking hands he tears it open, spilling them out onto the sheets and grabbing for the first one out of the box. It takes him longer than it usually might to get it onto Javert’s cock, and Javert swallows hard as he rolls it on. His finger crooks, and Valjean grunts, low in his chest. 

“Let me,” Valjean says, and at last Javert withdraws his hand so Valjean can position it on his hip. For a moment Valjean hesitates, staring down at Javert’s cock, which juts out at him almost accusingly. There’s a laugh bubbling up in the back of Javert’s throat again, but if he lets it out they won’t be able to do this. 

“Jean?” he says after a moment, squeezing his hips reassuringly. 

“Right. Yes.” Valjean takes a breath, reaches out to stroke Javert’s cock a couple of times as if to reassure himself. 

Javert forces himself not to focus on that. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“No, no. I read that it can be easiest to do it like this the first time.” 

“You _read?”_ Valjean’s hand is still moving on his cock, almost absent-mindedly. In a minute Javert will have to tell him to stop. Everything about this scenario seems custom-designed to make him come far sooner than either of them might like. 

Despite straddling Javert’s hips and presumably being moments away from riding him into abject ecstasy, Valjean somehow still manages to look sheepish. “It’s not as if I knew how this would work. Other than the absolute basics.”

“You did mention.” 

“I wanted to make sure I—that is, I can’t guarantee it will be—you know—”

“No, I don’t know. Are you suggesting I might not enjoy this?” Before Valjean can answer Javert leans in to nip at his lower lip, enjoying Valjean’s sharp intake of breath. “Don’t be a fool.” 

“Well, when you put it that way,” Valjean says dryly. The hesitation is gone now. He shifts his hips forward until he’s in position, his hand is still on Javert’s cock only this time it’s to guide it into place, and Javert can’t help but tighten his hands as if clinging to a lifeline, to a rock in a stormy sea. It’s too much; he has to close his eyes as Valjean sinks down onto him, so slow and warm and tight, and Javert doesn’t realize Valjean is holding his breath until it comes out in a ragged burst.

“Is it okay?” Javert’s own voice cracks slightly and he lacks the capacity to be embarrassed. 

Valjean nods. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth hanging open. He doesn’t stop. Javert _wants_ to stop him, to tell him this isn’t another way for him to martyr himself, but he also wants to jolt his hips up and press himself farther in, to wrap his arms around Valjean’s back and rock their hips together until they both spend. 

He does neither. He waits, his toes curling as the pleasure sears through him, until Valjean has seated himself fully on Javert’s cock. His chest rises and falls with every panting breath, slick with sweat beneath the white bristles of hair. Javert leans back, stroking Valjean’s flank with numb fingers, overwhelmed. Beautiful. Valjean is so _beautiful_ like this, so good as he begins to rise and fall, eyelids a fan across his cheeks, the color blooming beneath his skin. Javert’s breathing comes fast as well. 

“God. Javert.” Valjean licks his lips. “That’s good.” 

Lightheaded, Javert reaches up to run his hands up Valjean’s spine. “Tell me. Tell me what you’re feeling.” 

Valjean lets out a short huff of breath that could be a gasp or a laugh. “You feel big.”

“I’m not that big.”

“Yes, well. It feels bigger. It feels good.”

“Hm.” Both of their voices are tight. Javert likes to hear Valjean like this, shaky and barely in control. “I guess I’d better brace myself for when you do this to me, then.” 

A sharp almost-cry. Javert would have thought Valjean had hurt himself, were it not for the way his head tilted back. “I’d like to make you feel like this,” Valjean pants. “I can barely think.” 

“Can I touch you?” Valjean makes a short sound of affirmative, his attention apparently elsewhere. Javert reaches for him. He is hard, and already slick without the addition of lube; Javert squeezes some more into his hand all the same. It’s a miracle he can perform even the most simple tasks in circumstances such as these, but when he next wraps his hand around Valjean’s length it is slick and tight and good, if the moan which rumbles from Valjean’s throat is any indication. Javert works his hand around him with even, pragmatic strokes, focusing on that rather than the fact that a part of himself is inside of Valjean’s body, that Valjean likes it, that he is pleasuring Valjean as much as Valjean is pleasuring him. Valjean picks up the pace, and begins to rock their hips together in a rhythm that has lights shooting off behind Javert’s eyes, filling his body with sparks.

“Not going to last,” Javert blurts, his other hand gripping Valjean’s hip hard in warning. The noise which Valjean makes is more akin to a sob, but he does not slow the punishing pace he’s set. Javert’s body is becoming something else, turning sweet and tense and distant, brimming with the feeling, spilling over with it. 

He stares up at Valjean, slack-mouthed, desperate, and can do nothing but lie beneath him and come as the pleasure reaches its crest, pumping through him and out of him as his muscles clench to the point of almost-pain, a rough cry ripping out of him. His hand on Valjean’s cock tightens on instinct, and his clouding vision nonetheless does not deny him the sight of Valjean spending in ribbons across Javert’s stomach, hips jerking, eyes wide and riveted on Javert’s face as if there is nothing else in the universe worth seeing. 

*

They’re lying together afterwards when it starts, having towelled themselves clean enough that they won’t wake up regretting it. Javert’s face presses to Valjean’s chest, where the sweat cools and his heart beats a steadily slowing rhythm. Valjean’s fingers card through his hair, lazy, on the cusp of sleep. They are going to fall asleep like this, in each other’s arms, and then wake up together and have breakfast together and perhaps go for a walk in the park, sit on the couch reading together, drinking tea together, and this is how it will be for the rest of their lives. 

He feels Valjean’s arms tighten around him, but he isn’t entirely sure why until he draws his next ragged, shaky breath. His face is wet; he breathes slowly, counting each raw inhalation, holding it, and letting it out in a slow controlled shudder. Valjean says nothing; merely holds him, and keeps stroking his hair, planting kisses on the top of his head. 

When it’s finally over Javert waits a bit longer, to make sure that it really _is_ over. He’s trembling a little, but that could mean anything. He pulls his head away from Valjean’s chest, his face sticky from tears and sweat that Javert quickly wipes away. He shifts up so his head is on the pillow beside Valjean’s, staring into his hazel eyes. 

“ _Don’t_ apologize,” Valjean warns. “I recognize that look.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Javert says, a tad peevishly even though his voice is hoarse. He reaches up to gently thumb Valjean’s lower lip, only the ghost of a touch sliding over it.“I was was going to thank you.” 

A smile spreads over Valjean’s lips. Javert follows it with his thumb, committing the feel of it to memory. “You don’t need to do that either,” Valjean says, but leans in to kiss him all the same. 

*

The next morning, Javert burns the pancakes. Even drowned in maple syrup and butter, it’s still like eating leathery charcoal. He eats them at the breakfast table across from Valjean, wearing his faded thin grey t-shirt with his hair dishevelled from sleep, flipping through the newspaper with a foot hooked around Javert’s ankle. 

They’re the best he’s ever tasted. 


End file.
